


Travel Log

by orbitingearth



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Outer Space, Survival, lots of flashbacks, will tag as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-30 22:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8551036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbitingearth/pseuds/orbitingearth
Summary: Swindle finds himself floating though space alone and in uncharted waters. Sure he can survive in a social situation where there are mechs to manipulate, but the cold, unpredictable, void of space is full of surprises that can’t be charmed with a good smile.





	1. Chapter 1

There was nothing like deep space to calm the nerves. Darkness, distant stars and planets giving soft light. Lack of heat leaving annoying frost on your joints that was just awful to get off and caused a lot of damage. The probability of being found around, oh what was it, 22,079,460,347 to one against? Swindle remembered having read that somewhere in a human book back when he was stranded on earth. He also felt that the number should be higher in his case considering that the last ship he was on went out of their way to drop him off in an unbearably remote sector. Either way, he was floating at a decent speed with little to no chance of stopping until some meteors ripped him apart or he plummeted into a star, that is, if that happens before his fuel reserves ran out, which wasn’t likely since he still had his transwarp drawer full of all kinds of goodies that were mostly useless beyond short entertainment currently. Space, it calmed the nerves. 

Swindle brushed off more frost from his fingers, watching the flakes keep within his small gravitational pull, the thought of having to see them for a hypothetical eternity adding to his irritation. He was currently trying to distract himself (and somewhat clinging to a strand of hope) by cataloguing his inventory. Maybe there would be something of use that slipped his mind. He snorted. Nothing slipped his mind, ever, it was part of the job. Not only dealing with physical bargains but informational. He could almost consider himself a gossip if he didn’t monetize his penchant for remembering. But knowing who was backstabbing who wasn’t going to help his situation currently. 

If only he had snagged something from that Eukarotyx ship; he had noticed the booster packs but hadn’t thought to grab them. He also hadn’t thought that his attempt at a deal would turn sour but that was his bad considering he was technically an illegal stow away, only having gotten a ride because one of the engine workers was a sucker for some good ray guns. “They’re… a collectable kind of interest.” They had said. Swindle didn’t believe them, of course, but he also didn’t judge. It was one of the few things he couldn’t afford to do. 

Being a transformer has it’s added benefits, especially when the Eukarotyx ship you’re trying to stow away on is transporting motor parts to a nice planet in the vicinity of Hedonia that has a good amount of black market ports and other doo-dads that are handy. Being a transformer lacks benefits when poorly fastened crates fall on your rear and force you to transform out of your alt mode in front of an inspector. And it’s less pleasing when you forget that the Eukarotyxes aren’t keen on bargaining… or Cybertronians, and striking up a deal involving very illegal weaponry and inflated sums which leads you to being shoved out of an air lock. It was safe to assume that this was his fault and only his fault. It hurt to think that, he never liked to be the one in the wrong because it had less loop holes, but at this point, with all the angles thought over, it was a needed admittance. 

Swindle crossed his arms, groaning at the resistance of ice buildup on his elbows that cracked and stung. It was about a sector and a half before he came even near orbiting any kind of planet, let alone life inhabited. Even then he risked burning up in the atmosphere or falling into something painful and deadly before he could pull out any kind of shield. So his options were to gamble with falling onto a planet, not his favorite choice, or hope to Primus some ship comes by and picks him up, the less likely of the two considering that, EVEN IF a ship came by, not a lot of folks liked him enough to give him a lift. 

He dug around in his chest drawer, pulling out two ovular attachments and applied them to his arms. “Might as well have my shields ready in case of debris or something.” He muttered halfheartedly. 

In all honesty, it was just something to do. A precaution, yes, but also a small moment of normalcy. He liked thinking about all his escapades when doing inventory. Every product had a backstory and that added to its value. In other words, his life was risked so you should pay more for the effort (and extra if Swindle ever made the effort of telling the story during the deal). The shields themselves were picked up from Tectosilicon orbiting one of the three Zeo stars. Swindle remembered having been vacationing there with his Gestalt back when being a combiner was “new” and “cool” at the beginning of the war. He had wandered off to explore the bright white city, curious as to what the night life was like and what the scum in the alleys had to sell and bargain. The rest of his crew hadn’t been as avid to explore as he was, they being like most of Cybertron and hating organic life. They didn’t like things that went squish. 

Swindle had found himself behind a bar in a small tent with a Tectosilian who had a nice array of imported goods ranging from exotic food to illegal mechanisms. The Tectosilian was a good conversationalist by Swindle’s definition; meaning he let a lot of information slip without the arms dealer having to lift a servo. He came to find out that the merchant was one of many benefitting from the war. A nearby war, especially one involving very industrial beings, meant money in the weapons business for neighboring sectors. And he had very proudly shown a small array he had purchased off of a technorganic who had escaped the destruction when it spread to their moon colony. The merchant was very happy because the technorganic was in a hurry and didn’t care about price, only to get rid of their weapons before any authorities caught them. He was hinting at wanting Swindle to purchase a few guns and a small bag of an unknown organic plant, most likely to evade the ever crushing authorities on their planet, but Swindle’s optics were locked on two purple discs in a corner. Very shiny and new, of a more modern design, the seams almost invisible and the iridescence matching his paint job (an added bonus).

“How much?” He asked, gesturing toward the two discs, a smirk played across his faceplates and the hustle already spinning in his mind. 

“Forty for one, Seventy five for both.” The merchant said, pulling them closer so that Swindle could get a better look. “If you buy the lovely blaster and the sack then I can make it an even one hundred, because you seem a smart mech.”

“No no I have no interest in anything but these two. Lets say I give you forty for both because they are more than likely used and I don’t like to pay too much for second hand.” The Tectosilian frowned, his long fingers tapping on the table and eyes squinting. 

“I gave you a good deal, base price nowhere is lower. I’m insulted that you think my goods are worth less than I say. I don’t sell trash this was all hard to come by and considered rare.” He slammed his hands down.

“Rare on your planet maybe,” Swindle said, still calm and collected and with the same charming smile he always held when he was about to seal a deal in his favor. Picking up a gun he tossed it lightly in his palm. “Do you know how easy it is to come by a make 342-Rho Laser? They come by the truck loads back in my home sector. Same thing for this motor and that bayonet that you clearly don’t know how to use. My good man, you are out of the loop all this stuff is just worthless toys in the international market; you’re lucky I will pay more than ten for these eggs let alone forty. How much business have you had today?” he looks coyly at the merchant, pieces set.

“A couple locals and you.” He grated out as if the words scraped the bottom of his windpipes. It was safe ti assume that the locals hadn’t purchased anything. The Tectocilians weren’t big on owning weapons and liked their aesthetic to be paler than the dark gunmetal presented before him. 

“And in this past mega-cycle or even deca-cycle?” The merchant stayed silent, still holding eye contact but not making a peep. Swindle leaned back, putting the blaster down and crossing his arms.

“Thought so,” He picked up the discs again and pulled out a data pad. “So, instead of scaring business away how about you actually sell something for a decent price. I’ll do you a favor, I’m going to throw in ten more shanix for your time and we’ll seal the deal. Deal?” Smile, nonchalant lean, and scene. 

Swindle left the tent holding the two discs and attached them to his arms. They were light, barely noticeable, and in good shape for used shields. Poor merchant probably didn’t even know how to turn them on, most likely thought they were weaponized frisbees. Content with his purchase, Swindle made his way back to the main street, not hoping to find he gestalt soon but required to based on the allotted shore leave time that was being eaten away every klik. 

He had begrudgingly located Vortex and Brawl still in the bar they had settled in the moment they rolled into town. A few more energon cubes drunker than the last time Swindle checked, but planted on stools that would end up with their aft prints after the night they had been there so long. Brawl grunted at Swindle's appearance but didn't say much more, Vortex didn't even notice the addition to their table, too busy talking Brawl's audials off about some fight he had on some planet with some mech that ended with him dropping the poor sap in a canyon and leaving them to rust. 

Swindle didn't care much for these conversations, instead opting to study his new appliances and take note of their status. A small scratch on shield (A) about two centimeters from the center. Nothing noticeable but definitely lowered its market price. He frowned, thinking that he still paid too much. But, frankly, he always felt that way unless the thing was free. 

"You bought even more junk?" Onslaught rumbled as he approached the table, simultaneously waving down a server and impatiently grunting his usual poison. He glared at the discs on Swindle's arms with a venom and disdain that made the merchant shudder. "I keep tellin ya to stop wasting your money on that slag we don't need it." He could tell Onslaught was in a sour mood. It was easiest to gauge their leaders disposition by who he chose to pick on. Vortex was particularly good days since the copter liked to banter in as lighthearted a way that was possible between the two. Blast Off was somber days, usually when Onslaught's plans didn't work and it put him in the dumps. Brawl was neutral since everyone argued at him. Swindle was when one should be afraid because the merchant tended to stay out of the way of the rest of the group. When he was sought out and singled for verbal assault it was when Onslaught WANTED something to be mad about. 

"What I barter and trade doesn't concern you oh fearless leader. It's not your money or the communal pool I'm pulling from. I have my own account." He knew better than to respond but today wasn't a good day, having been annoyed by the merchant and the possibility of lower prices being missed. 

"It's a distraction. You're distracted. It affects the team and I swear to Primus you'd trade us all off as spare parts if you got the chance. I can feel it when we combine, your distrust and lack of respect. It's vulgar." The words rolled off of Onslaughts tongue like acid and made Swindle's plating feel as if there were insects crawling around beneath it. 

He could feel his lip plates begin to move without his consent and insults puff from his vocalizer. Nothing loud or aggressive. Just angry mutterings of "afthead" and "fragger." He was better than this, than them, than any of this situation or the oily scum that made up eighty percent of the Decepticons, which, in his book was saying something since he himself was quite oily. He was there at the start of the party, when it all meant something more attainable than it did now. When it was still political and righteous and Towards Peace was freshly distributed among the masses, not representing genocide or the color purple. 

A large servo slammed on the table in front of him, causing the energon cubes to slosh and spill and Swindle to twitch. Onslaught stares him down, visor glinting with a particularly focused vexation. 

"Stop thinking you're better than this. It's called a gestalt for a reason." 

Swindle hummed to himself, not keen on the direction the memory had turned but was brought back by an object knocking into his helm, causing his vision to turn to static for a klik. Resetting his optics and ignoring the ringing in his processor, Swindle looked ahead at the mass amounts of meteors he was about to sail through. Now was the perfect time to put his favorite shields to work. Tracing a servo around the rim of the disk, a light, barely visible, forcefield expanded around him, creating a bubble about two feet away from him in diameter. 

Although it wasn't anything detrimental or painful, Swindle hated any kind of imperfection on his person. He had to look clean and professional to separate himself from the rest of the black market muck. He would never admit it but his need for everything to be clean and untouched had always been there. Before the gestalt, before the war. It was in his programming. Part of it was that, along with hating messes, Swindle hated cleaning them up. Which ended up being quite difficult when the majority of your gestalt was rambunctious and lacked care. Save for Blast Off, Swindle was alone in his need to be tidy and organized. It was hard enough keeping his wares away from the rest of the bunch to prevent damage, but having to share a space was something he fought hard against when they were trapped on Earth. 

Eventually he was granted a small closet in the base where he could at least keep to himself but, after striking up deals with the humans, he was barely at the base anyway so it didn't even matter. The few times he did come "home" it was painful, annoying, or any kind of word that Swindle could think of that would prevent being with his supposed team being cast in a positive light. Maybe it was because he was never there, and deep down he did blame himself, but he had an aloof nature and everyone understood that, yet they still expected him to get along. It backfired. 

Either he wasn't there at all or he was pushed away by the natural social aspect of things. They just had nothing to talk about. While he could strike up a conversation about art or literature or some slag with Blast Off, the shuttle probably thought himself above speaking with a low life crook suck as Swindle. So they never talked which led to never forming Bruticus. 

Swindle was never one for confined spaces. Unless it was by his own terms for his own well being, thus being a fan of personal shields that prevent you from being torn to shreds by a seemingly endless meteor field. But having to be the leg of a large mech and giving yourself over to becoming a single being with four other brutes was not on his list of favorites. Truthfully, he loved combiners, thats why he worked with Menasor so frequently, they were a lovely bunch, but he himself never wanted to be forced into that again. Other combiner gestalts got along and worked because they all wanted to be together, there wasn’t one mech in the group who saw his own self interest more important than the group. None of the other gestalts had an equivalent to Swindle. He was selfish and he would admit that. But, Swindle had gotten more things done and more money obtained through his own personal plans than any time he was a leg. 

A particularly large meteor hit the front of his shield, startling him from his thoughts. The space rocks were getting bigger and closer in proximity. If he was lucky, he could attach to one and consolidate his situation a bit more beyond “flying through space for a hypothetical forever.” He waited, watching for the right size and reeled the shield in to just about an inch from his frame, hugging to a general form so he could use his legs. Another large meteor, around the size of the Nemesis was in his sights. Quickly, Swindle opened up his drawer and rummaged around until he found a pair of pede attachments and slipped them on. 

Now for the difficult part. The path was relatively clear and he hoped to Primus that nothing came at him sideways because he had to turn of the shields for this to work. Timing was essential, and although he could time responses and charming smiles during a conversation, large, lifeless rocks weren’t going to spare him because he had nice dentae. If he turned off his shields too soon then he risked being hit by a stray meteor. Tuning them on too late made it hard to activate the gravity pedes fast enough and he would just bounce off the meteor with enough inertia to send him back to where he started. 

He guessed he had about eighty kliks to go before he made impact so he tuned the shields off. His spark fluttered and fans whirred in anxiety, this was not the place he wanted to die. Where no on would even happen upon his body on accident because no one wanted to look for him. The meteor came closer and he turned on the pedes, aiming his legs at the ground with his knees bent and optics shuttered. The large grey mass came forward, rock and dust engulfing his vision. He felt a crack and then shooting legs in his pedes that caused him to crumple on the rock, letting dust and grim into his joints on a rare occasion where it hurt too much to care.


	2. Chapter 2

There are exactly three times where Swindel had to fix himself up because he was nowhere near a trustworthy medic. The first time being when he was shot in the arm by a very offended Hydralician in a smokey bar because the weapons he was attempting to unload on the mech were made by a rival planet that was on the brink of a religious war with the Hydralicians. He had run the moment the bar ruckus could give him a good enough cover and patched up the wound with a piece of scrap metal and a hand welder. It was ugly and itchy and rust infected but it was all he could do before he met back up with any kind of Cybertronian about a Stellar cycle later. He got an ear full about how in basic training they were taught how to make a proper tourniquet and he should know better because one deca cycle more and he would have lost that arm. He refused to pay the medic and instead left a rather nasty I.O.U.

The second time was when he consumed some bad energon that caused him to be out of commission for quite some time. At this point he knew how to purge some tanks and go on a less offensive diet to clear his systems. The problem was that he was stationed on Earth and it was impossible to be particular about what you ingest. He was very careful to hide his predicament from the constructicons, since they were the acting repair crew and he wasn’t fond of their company or opinions, and especially from his gestalt and Megatron. An unusable mech was about as valuable as a scrap heap and he would be offlined and used for spare parts in an instant. The thought of grimey deception hands digging around in his insides and his personal storage dimension made him squirm. This led to a very long cycle where he kept to his closet and bribed Octane to get him some refined oil from the Arabs he was in contact with. It cost him three spare fuel pumps and a good bit of gossip concerning Blitzwing but it got him through that nasty spell. However, he still can’t look at regular oil without the need to gag. 

The third time was when he was stranded on an asteroid with two broken legs and no plan for survival or a safe return to Cybertron. Which was were he was right now, face down in the dirt and vocalizer straining against his need to scream. If he could muster it, he would reach into his inventory and see if he had any pain killers or high grade, which, if he remembered correctly, he did, then he could go about fixing himself as best as he could. But currently he couldn’t move because it felt like a fire was burning up from his knees and spreading through his body so every small movement was agony. 

Thundercracker had once said, in the few moments they had spoken to each other, that the worst pain a human could feel was having their femur broken. Swindle, at the time, had laughed at this because he knew a bot named Femoris who happened to turn into a leg for a failed combiner because their other leg had absconded to the Autobots. He also had laughed because he didn’t care about human anatomy or any of that slag and wanted to drop off the televisions for the jet and be gone with his payment as quickly as possible. Now, he understood and wished he had asked how to fix a broken femur because maybe human leg aid would be at least somewhat useful to him at the moment. 

He coughed, his vents having inhaled a little too much dust, and that cough quickly turned into a groan as his body shifted and made his leg pain all the more apparent. This would not do. Finally, giving up on receiving any kind of comfort in this situation without staying stock still in the dirt like a useless piece of offline junk, Swindle rolled over onto his back, allowing himself to scream and grunt and groan. There’s no sound in space and no one he knew was nearby so only he would be in the know of this one moment of breaking his usually collected self image. 

Decepticons frowned upon weakness no matter what. If you got shot or an Autobot ripped off your arm then that was tough luck and you had to power through or even smile about it so nobody thought you were less than great. Swindle especially frowned upon weakness. He was always very concerned with self image, one of the many reasons he hated being a combiner, but especially when it came to intimidation. You can’t get what you want when people thought less of you. He could be smaller than his target victim and still hold an air that made him tower. 

There was one moment where Onslaught had pulled him aside after refusing to combine and plainly stated “You’re self obsessed and it’s disgusting.” Swindle scoffed and moved on, really not giving a frag about what others thought. Or, at least, he always said he didn’t care what others thought but the truth was that he cared a lot and it informed a majority of his choices. The was never a time he didn’t feel scrutinized by his mental understanding of the world. He kept his armor clean and his posture confidant and his expressions controlled to prevent any possible faux pas. Which is why he was glad that this rock was empty save for himself and an irritating amount of dust that kept making his vents sputter. 

Attempting to focus as best as he could through the cloud of agony that muddled his processors, he turned off his sensors in his legs, causing the pain to dull down to a strange numbness that was off-putting. Swindle had never experienced amputation or the need to turn off any extremities. The worst he ever got was being shot a few times and dealing with it. (He quietly thanked Primus for this). There were times he’d find himself in a cantina talking to a fellow Deception who had an arm ripped off or a pede smashed and they always said the same thing about phantom pains and the natural instinct to move this thing that didn’t exist. Being mechanical, they were lucky enough to eventually get a replacement and paint it to match but, during war times, finding working parts got difficult and the wait list was long. 

At the moment, before he could even try to plan progression, Swindle had to take a klik and adjust to this new sensation, or lack thereof. There was still the issue of movement causing more damage and he wasn’t able to walk but not being immobilized by horrific pain was a start. Sitting with his legs splayed in front of him, Swindle dug around once more, pulling out a couple of cable lines and a bundle of old disabled electrical prods he was saving for… well he wasn’t quite sure but right now he was glad. With as much knowledge he had from barely paying attention to basic medical training in boot camp, Swindle tied up his legs into splints as best as he could; three prods on each side of the leg and cable tightly wrapped around with a servos width between each. 

He considered trying to hobble around with unbendable legs but immediately scrapped the idea because (A) if he turned his legs on again they would hurt like slag and (B) applying all his weight onto very broken legs was the worst idea. 

Pausing that thought, Swindle decided it was time to attend to more pressing matters; those being the coldness of space and his discomfort. A basic campsite, as listed in one of their briefings when the Deceptions were stranded on Earth, and reiterated again on Charr, has a fire or other source of heat, energon rations, and shelter in case of rain. Swindle had taken the liberty to edit this list to be more “survivable” on his terms. Entertainment, which could be a data pad, music, or foolish colleagues, is essential and a recharge slab, whether it be made of things found in the area you’re camping in or made from a personal inventory (which he always had on hand) prevented unwanted dirt in your seams. So, as he found himself in the ideal moment for a campsite, Swindle pulled out his matt, a bag which held a very lovely automatic tent from Old Old Quintessa, a data pad he was currently reading (one of the squishy human romance genre that he swiped from Thundercracker before he left Earth) and his rations which, at the moment, were only made of of high grade because this situation warranted a good, strong, drink. 

Camp set up and small cube of high grade prepared, Swindel sat and waited for… whatever it was that came next but accepting that he was stuck here was not an option he wanted to settle on. Bitter memories of Charr sprung up in his mind as he looked out upon the dark horizon, meteors slowly tumbling together in a long convoy. At least here he didn’t have to fight others for rations, risking further damage or starving for a cycle, he had a decent supply at the moment. Judging by his calculations he would survive for maybe a Meta Cycle if he skimped. So much for his dream of living in luxury, here he was in the exact opposite position he planned on for after the war. 

“Oh I’m bolted in the head how could I forget.” He sat up straighter in surprise at his sudden idea before laying back. Swindle let his disabled legs stay in their splints but supported his torso with his arms, leaving only the wheels above his pedes touch the ground. With more effort than he would admit, Swindle carefully wheelbarrowed himself a few feet before walking his hands backward to his camp setup. Mobility problem: solved. 

Finally getting a moments rest, Swindle risked the fuel usage to open a sector map to pinpoint his location more specifically. The small, green, blip on his map on the edge of the sector gave him a euphoria that rivaled the initial Decepticon uprising against the functionists. It was a planet, LV-118, one of Shockwaves old planet experiments, bigger than his current could-be-satellite, and it was within a communications range. Nothing special, and he would probably sound like static to whoever was on the other end, but close enough to civilization that he had a ticket out of this mess and into a warm berth. 

First, he needed a way off the meteor. Looking at his inventory list he worked his processors, trying to remember the basic components needed for propulsion. "Shield plus a small amount of explosive energon, a liquid propellent rocket, and some good music equals my escape out of here." Swindle snapped his fingers, suddenly gathering up his things and stuffing them away. "Based on my map I'll need about one meta cycle’s worth of energon to get me to the planet and then I should be in communications range or at least somewhere more... workable to my favor." 

The constructicons were the builders of the Decepticon crew, although a bit clumsy and daft with certain specificities, they liked making things and figuring out how to engineer a working invention. While he was decent at math and solving puzzles, Swindle never physically built anything nor did he have an affinity to science. 

He picked up his small blowtorch and began attaching poles and canisters together. There was a shield that he found hideous but never seemed to have thrown away that had the perfect back applicator to weld against. No tears were shed over using it as supplies for a possible failure. He had an end goal, he always had and end goal, but, currently, the in-between was a mystery. 

Looking at his haphazardly welded together contraption, there was a large portion of him that knew it wouldn’t work. But, Swindle had learned very early on that even a majority can be suppressed, so the overly optimistic sliver of his processor was congratulating him the loudest at actually having made something other than another combiner. 

Clamping the shield to his back, he activated it’s forcefield and gripped the two handlebars that extended from the propulsion canisters, small wires running from a switch on one handle to the ignition cell of the canister. Biting his bottom lipplate, his legs were activated, allowing him stop stand, facing toward LV-118. The pain made him want to crumple again but his splints kept him upright, forcefully suffering. First things first, Swindle activated his sound system, speakers attached to his shoulders, and picked an upbeat, orchestral, song to (hopefully but unsuccessfully) trick his processor into relaxing into the situation. Flicking the switch, he counted down he milliseconds before the hydrogen was ignited and the liquid propulsion and reactionary energy explosion shot him off planet, towards a more workable destination. 

His hands held tightly to the worn down rubber of his handlebars as he navigated clumsily through the field. Every meteor that bumped into him caused his spark to jump and await his “spaceship” to inevitably fall apart, leaving him back where he started. But it didn’t. He kept going and the rocks became smaller and soon he was in open water again, safer and still moving towards the planet he had pinpointed. 

“You’re lucky,” a lot of bots had said to him over the centuries. “You somehow didn’t get killed.” At the time Swindle would brush off their comments with an annoyed “luck has nothing to do with it.” But looking back on the cluster of meteors and his still functioning craft, Swindle felt the need to correct himself. He was lucky. Getting out of the war, with as many enemies on both sides that he had, unscathed, was beyond his ability to be slippery. Bribing Ultra Magnus not once but twice is skill. Surviving an asteroid field in a hand made scrap shuttle without any complications and setting course to a planet that just so happens to be within communications rage, was not due to any skill he had. It was plain, stupid, luck. 

Floating in space with no protection or intended trajectory is unnerving. Having no control over the situation wasn’t something Swindle was fond of. He liked control and knowing outcomes. It was one thing he and Onslaught could agree on. Having plans that worked. Swindle had one big plan that he felt was still on track, at least, it was until his entire fate shattered to a mystery the moment he exited that Eukarotyx airlock. ignoring that little indiscretion in his timeline, his plan was still on track. Make a lot of money and retire. Initially he was doing that slowly when he still worked for the gladiators. Taking his paychecks and extra cash he made on the side doing his usual schemes and tricks, and saving a percentage in an extra bank that was left untouched. Understanding how taxes worked and how to get inflated interest through a match was discovered as he listened to the accountants converse at the betting booths before each match. Then the war hit.

Plans are allowed to change as long as the outcome stays the same. Redirecting how you get from point A to point B is acceptable in his book and that’s exactly what he did. Instead of benefitting off of the current economic system, Swindle took to exploiting the desperation war brought. Of course, he had to chose a side and make some sacrifices and work his share eider eider, but under all of the actual fighting and combining and surviving, there were still sales and purchases being done on all sides. However, now that the war was pretty much over and people didn’t necessarily need illegal weapons or top secret information, leaving planet was his immediate choice. More profit off world which meant he was getting closer and closer to completing "the plan." It was a bad idea.

Swindle loved visiting other planets and meeting new folks, learning about their currencies and connections; how their business went about itself. The thing he hated though, was not being able to go home. He had made a non verbal, informal pact with himself that he couldn’t go home yet, there was still more to do and achieve. Going home would mean staying home. He hadn’t signed a contract or shaken on it but that anxiety remained. He just had to stay out here until he could tie up every lose end into a clean, tight, knot. 

Unsurprisingly, everything unravels when you find yourself in space with no possible way to leave. Especially when, having reached the exosphere of your destination, your ship decides it’s had enough of everything and falls apart around you, similarly to your life at the moment. Metaphors.

Swindle was used to flashing red lights and pre-recorded voices announcing the sinking of a ship, usually these ordeals were loud. Once his sound system cut out, sailing behind his left shoulder, everything was silent and clear save for the loud roaring of air in his audials and the occasional clink of something or other hitting him before disappearing. It wasn’t a moment of clarity, where his life flashed before him and his mind was organized with adrenaline. Swindle worked best in loud, unorganized panic; help[ed him hone in on the important things. At this instance, in the clear air of LV-118’s mesosphere, heat radiating through his body like a relaxing oil bath and grey clouds below him in a welcoming billow, Swindle’s mind was blank. He had no clue what do do next, how to figure out what was priority. All he knew was himself, his speed of falling, and the inevitable ground below. 

The impact was… less that spectacular and not a moment to write home about, but he survived. A crater filled with the debris of his ship, himself, and scattered rocks that had tumbled back down the concave of earth surrounding him, was still. His audials were ringing and body hot enough o where smalls crash of metal were annoying welded into his plating like unattractive scabs. The weight of the debris over him was nothing overbearing but, after falling so far and still being extremely injured, it felt like Unicron himself was taking a rest on his back. 

It was raining, from what he could see and hear and, from the mud that he was slowly sinking into, feel. Through his view inside the crater, there were rocky crags and muddy lands and nothing much more. So much for a moment of comfort, he just hopped from one small dusty meteor to another large muddy one with nothing better in his favor gained. 

“Stupid mud ball.” he growled, finally deciding he wanted out and shimmying out from under the debris of the crash and crawling towards a rocky overhang. For miles, through the rain, all he could see was rocks and dirt, all of his least favorite things slammed together in one terrible planet. More than ever now, Swindle wished he was home.

**Author's Note:**

> this takes place after the war but before RID and MTMTE in a combination of G1 and IDW verse. kind of an AU but I’m not worrying about that i just wanted to write an idea i had floating around about my favorite character


End file.
